belgianwaffle

Family

How did you get over the Christmas?


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Family, Ireland

The peculiar Irish relationship with the definite article means that this has been a regular question since my return to the metropolis. Full of excitement, let me tell you.

Christmas Eve

We went skating with the children. My sister-in-law came too which was a mercy as she was able to help in keeping the children upright. My children appear to have no sense of balance. They tottered around the edges. I took each of them around the rink in turn. Michael simply lifted his feet off the ground and let himself be carried; herself keeled over determinedly backwards despite my hissing “lean forwards”; only, Daniel, who has the best ball sense too, showed the remotest sign of getting the hang of it. Mr. Waffle has sworn never again.

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The day was rendered slightly hideous by the knowledge that Mr. Waffle’s brother and his family who were going to Sicily for Christmas (to stay with Italian relatives) were facing a very real prospect of, instead, spending the day in Beauvais airport due to poor weather. They had set off at 6 in the morning. There were regular apocalyptic updates throughout the day. But due to a Christmas miracle and a €300 taxi fare, they made it safely and texted us in the early evening to say that they had arrived in Sicily.

Later, the stockings were hung by the chimney with care and Santa was amazed to see that one had been left out for Hodge. He did what he could under the circumstances and came up with a jar of tuna fish.

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She also had her own list:
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Christmas Day

Up with the lark. Fantastic Santa presents. General happiness. Mass passed off reasonably peacefully except for the bit beforehand when a weeping Michael refused to leave the car for reasons I now forget and, in what can only be called an example of excellent parenting, I threatened to stamp on his new cuddly toy in the ice unless he moved promptly. Cue more weeping and no movement. Let us draw a veil.

After a brief lunch in our own house, we moved out to the esteemed grandparents where more presents and Christmas dinner were provided – hurrah! There were also various cousins for drinks and, for once, we had the required number of presents. Unfortunately, and I say this with considerable bitterness, there was a mixup with the Kris Kindle thingamijig and I ended up presentless. However, my mother-in-law nobly stepped into the breach with an offer of babysitting during the day time while Mr. Waffle and I went out to lunch. Ours to spend in January, hurrah.

St. Stephen’s Day

We stayed over with the grandparents and left about lunch time with the boys leaving the Princess behind as her kind aunt was taking her off to the local puppet theatre. It is not clear to me how this treat of high order passed off but I fear it did not go well. Since all sides have taken a vow of omertà, we may never really know what happened.

Again, your correspondent completely failed to anticipate that although we were enjoying Christmas dinner away from our home, we might require some festive food ourselves and we returned to short rations.

27 December

We left Dublin (without Winnie and Nounours but with 2 doggies, progress of a sort) and whizzed off to Cork on the wonderful new roads. My parents, my aunt and my brother and sister had munificent presents for us and the children. The only slight downside being that afterwards Michael started to cry, if he met someone who didn’t have a present for him.

We were staying in our very kind and generous friends’ house in Garryvoe. I say this because I am very grateful and I would like to emphasise this before I start being ungrateful. It is an eco home built by sustainable energy Ireland and I was quietly confident that we would be delightfully toasty there. And we were, eventually. An hour after arrival having carefully followed the boiler instructions in Swedish (did you know that my husband speaks rudimentary Swedish, no really, who would have thought it would be so useful) the radiators were still freezing. I texted my friends in their [doubtless toasty] house in Spain asking for suggestions. R, who is merciful, suggested “follow instructions on back door of pellet burner”. Little did he know that we had already done so leading to one warm room but highlighting the coolness of the rest of the house. M, was cruel but pragmatic, he texted “Shiver. They will be fine tomorrow.” The children and I huddled together in bed and Mr. Waffle lay across our legs. We stayed there until the children were asleep and the risk of hypothermia seemed minimal. In what can only be described as very good timing, my mother had earlier given both boys thermal pyjamas and my sister had given the Princess a dressing gown. I had my fleecy pyjamas and Mr. Waffle slept in his clothes. And we are all still alive. In fact, the following day, and thereafter, the house was delightfully toasty with underfloor heating downstairs and warm radiators upstairs. The only mild complaint being the unique ventilation system which makes it sound, though thankfully not feel, as though the wind is indoors.

28 December

Oh yes we did. We went to the pantomime. Aladdin in the Everyman. I don’t think that the children have ever enjoyed a pantomime more and they are still singing the songs. An added bonus was that, as we arrived slightly late, I wasn’t forced to spend the price of a couple of tickets on random tat (pantomimes are now accessorised by windmill torch yokes).

After the pantomime, we met an old friend of mine who lives abroad and very generously gave the Princess a beautiful dress which she said thank you for very prettily (not, alas, a given). The boys were given a Horrid Henry book each and, to my horror, tossed them aside in disdain saying that they were stupid books. The shame, the shame. And they like Horrid Henry.

29 December

My friend, the heart surgeon, was home from Vermont for Christmas with her American husband and her four children under 5. The youngest of whom was just six weeks. We went to visit them at her mother’s house. Her mother confided that she was slightly relieved that the days of having 14 to dinner were about to end as they were going back to America the following day. The baby was very good and I was suitably impressed but his mother was very worried about him. Her worries were not ill-founded as, alas, the following day, after they had flown home to the US, he was in intensive care in Boston with whooping cough where he is still. The misery for everyone. Poor little mite. This cast something of a pall.

30 December

The children and I left Mr. Waffle to wander the quaint streets of the old town and took ourselves off to Limerick with my mother. My mother is from Limerick. As a staunch Cork loyalist, I try to forget this but blood will out. My friend the best dressed diplomat, also from Limerick, says that I use a lot of Limerick phrases and I am far better at cards than my Dublin husband (a low bar – he had to double check the rules of beggar-my-neighbour over the festive season). I am not horsey, though, we take what comfort we can from that.

It is about an hour’s drive from Cork to my aunt’s house in Limerick. In the course of that drive, the children were unbearable. My mother was appalled and I have seldom seen them behave worse. The problem is, of course, that you can’t do your worst in the matter of threats, cajolery and bribery when in the presence of your mother. A low point was when Daniel, maddened by the Princess reaching out from the seat behind and pulling his hair and unable to reach anyone from his car seat, used his gun to hit Michael over the head and draw blood [gun subsequently confiscated until return to Dublin]. We had to stop for toilet breaks, we had to stop twice to pick up offerings for the relatives. My mother tried to ring to say that we were nearly there but pointed out reproachfully that the noise from the children was such that she had no idea whether anyone had picked up the telephone or not.

By the time we got there, I was beside myself. My mother suggested that I tell them about my aunt. I mentioned for the first time that she owned a shop (a small one, crucially, attached to the house). This news was greeted by rapt silence. When we went into the house, through the shop, the children nearly died of happiness. My cousin brought them into the shop and let them choose a drink each. The joy. They were so overwhelmed by being in a strange house and, more particularly one with a shop attached, that they were very silent and well behaved leading my saintly aunt to remark that they were very good children. I hadn’t been in that house myself in maybe 20 years and what I found very peculiar was that it had hardly changed at all. A picture of my cousin’s horse had appeared on the wall where there used to be a holy water font (did I tell you I once looked for a holy water font in IKEA, no sniggering please) but otherwise it was as though the house had been frozen in time when I left it. In an arrangement that used to be traditional in rural Ireland (and may still be for all I know) the house was split in two and my Nana had her own rooms on the other side of the house. My cousin asked if I wanted to see my Nana’s room and, of course, I did. A lot was the same: the old piano, the dining room table and chairs but in front of the sofa, there was the largest television I have ever seen alive in captivity. I suspect she would not have approved. I looked into her kitchen which has become something of a store room for odd things. I have a very vivid memory of helping her make brown bread there.

My uncle and aunt have six grown-up children and two were there the day we visited. One, S, had been home for Christmas and was going back to America the following day, the other D, lived locally. The Princess pointed to D and asked in an awed whisper whether he was the cousin who had pulled my teddy’s head off. In a family of six, I suppose, it was always likely that it would be the child nearest to me in age who would fight me for my teddy bear and tear off its head leaving my Nana to stitch it back but I had told the Princess of his transgression in such dramatic terms (not in preparation for the visit, I hasten to add, just in general) that it stayed in her mind. I nodded grim confirmation and poor D blushed to the roots of his hair for the sin of 37 years ago. At this point I took my mother and S to the nursing home where my uncle was recovering from an operation and left D and my aunt to the tender mercies of the children. When I came back, it was to the sound of delighted laughter as my cousin had used the time to send them up and down the stairs on my uncle’s chair lift thingy. Upon my mother’s muttering that these things cost €35,000 (really, can that be true?), the fun had to end but even that did not quench their joy because while I was away, my aunt had let them loose in the shop and they were allowed to take three things each. The Princess and Daniel had gone wild on chocolate and Michael had taken a packet of cream crackers.

We then pushed on another 25 kilometers to where my other aunt lives on the farm which my grandfather had owned and where my mother’s fear of cows had acquired legendary proportions (if your father is a dairy farmer, a fear of cows is both unusual and awkward). We arrived at 4 and my aunt had been waiting with lunch ready since 2. She was resigned as she commented that my mother’s family was never on time for anything (my husband will be pleased to know where that gene comes from). The children ate almost nothing (as ever) but my aunt expected this as they were city children. I protested that I had eaten everything as a child and I was a city child. “No,” she said, “your mother was from the country and that made the difference.” Perhaps it did but, if so, I can only wish that she had passed on the knack to me.

After dinner, although it was dark and sleeting, my lovely, saintly cousin who runs the farm, took the children out to have a go on the tractor. I had brought their wellingtons for this very purpose. The Princess, looking out at the weather, thought better of the adventure but the two boys were keen. They sat up in the cab beside my cousin: he let them blow the horn (somewhat to my shock but we were miles from the nearest house, of course – see, city girl), move the fork thing on the front, turn on and off the lights and, best of all, sit on his lap and drive the tractor. They drove up and down the long drive to the road and I went back into the house to find my mother and aunt chatting by the fire and my daughter staring at the ceiling. My aunt was telling my mother a long and gloomy story which was deeply inappropriate for the ears of a six year old but try as I might I could neither lure the Princess out nor lead my aunt to happier topics. It reflected my own experience – a quintessential part of my childhood was going to Limerick and hearing deeply inappropriate stories for children my age (hotel owner who murdered his wife while children begged guests to come and save their mother, anyone? yes really – Limerick is the centre of national gloom). Eventually, I dragged the Princess out and when she actually saw the splendid nature of the tractor for herself, she insisted on getting up too. Then they took out some milk for a five day old calf which they had the privilege of naming. After much deliberation, they called him Tommy.

When they all came in from their labour on the farm, I asked my cousin how long Tommy was likely to be with us. He cocked an eye at me and said “About two years.” “When he dies, can you tell me where he’s buried so that I can come and visit his grave?” asked the Princess. I think that I may have an incipient vegetarian on my hands.

Then a long very wet drive back.

31 December

Day spent recovering from the exertions of the previous day. Mr. Waffle and I went to bed at 11.05 which, he pointed out to me, is New Year in Belgium.

1 January

In the morning as part of our new year’s resolution to get out more, we prodded the children out of the house with pitchforks and made them walk on the beach which they actually quite enjoyed.
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Alas, when it was time to clean the house before leaving, the children were placated in less wholesome ways. Consider this model of good parenting:
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Then a hideous drive back to Dublin. We completed half the journey in a record 1 hour and 21 minutes admiring snow on the Galtees. Daniel swung his hands round and said, “Look Mummy, Alaska.” There is a boy in their class from Alaska (really) and he has made a big impression on our boys.

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Once we left Munster for Leinster, freezing fog descended and the roads became horribly icy. We crawled to Dublin and, when we got there, we crawled into our beds.

2 January/3 January/4 January

All a blur mostly dominated by the wretched cat. She greeted our return with modified rapture. This may have been because she was being fed hot milk in number 4 every night we were away and had actually been taken into the owner’s bed in number 5 (because she was crying on the street). In an effort to salvage my reputation, I pointed out that someone came in every day to feed the cat and that she had free access to the house via the cat flap. The cat, not realising that she is not a dog, followed us all the way to mass on Sunday. The children and I went into mass and Mr. Waffle carried her home. On his way back he met three young thugs who asked whether he had any cigarettes. When he said no, a thug punched him and cut his lip. At 11.30 in the morning. Somewhat unnerving. As I was relating this in hushed tones to a neighbour, the Princess overheard me: “Did Daddy really get hit?” “Yes, I’m afraid he did, sweetheart.” “Well, it’s a good thing Hodge wasn’t hurt too.” Quite. On Monday afternoon we went round to a neighbour’s for tea and the wretched cat followed us again. The Princess roared at her “You’re supposed to be independent”. My feelings precisely. The cat took it amiss and ran into yet another neighbour’s house – they had unwisely left their door open – so I had to penetrate the interior and haul her out. Great was her outrage when we reached our destination and she was excluded. When our hostess opened the door for someone else, Hodge shot in. I put her out. She stayed peering in and meowing pitifully on the drawing room windowsill for a while but eventually gave up the struggle. On our way home, one of our elderly neighbours was ahead of us clinging to the fence and struggling to stay upright on the icy hill. When I caught up with her, I discovered that part of the reason why she was struggling was that she was carrying Hodge who had clearly decided that she would prefer not to get her feet wet.

5 January

I ventured into work. Michael hung on to me in a most affecting manner and said “stay, Mummy, stay”. I felt really bad about going to work (even though I was leaving him with his father for heaven’s sake) and thought, he needs his Mummy. Then I kissed him goodbye and he said “Yeuch, slimy kiss”. So I suppose we are both ambivalent.

Aside from slipping on the ice and falling on my bottom, work was uneventful.

6 January

The last day of Christmas brought “extreme weather conditions” to Dublin. Stop sniggering North Americans. There was snow. We were scared. Our little family drove into town for lunch because we are stupid. After lunch, we were going to buy wellingtons but the children were cranky and I said that I would take them home in the car and leave Mr. Waffle to buy wellingtons and walk home. We set off in a flurry of snow. A journey which normally takes 15 minutes took an hour and fifteen minutes. It was absolutely terrifying. Cars were sliding, buses were sliding, twice I had to stop on a hill and very nearly couldn’t get going again. The children were unable to see the danger as we were inching along in heavy traffic and ignored my petrified pleas to be quiet and let Mummy concentrate. Picture the scene. I am on a hill, the bus in front of me has its hazard lights on and is lurching forward then slipping back. I am in first gear with my foot to the floor and my wheels are spinning and the engine is groaning. Daniel is bellowing that his shoe has fallen off and can I pick it up off the FLOOR. Michael is whining that the Princess is KICKING. And the Princess announces, I want to do a WEE. By the time we got home, I was shaking all over (though uninjured).

Mr. Waffle arrived in the door ten minutes after us having had a nice walk in the snow and carried out all kinds of errands. He took the children round the corner to test out their new wellingtons and to play on the road where all the neighbourhood children had gathered and a man was skating. Yes, with skates, down the very hill I had driven down, oh so cautiously, only a short time earlier. It was all very nice really (once I was out of the car). I have never in my whole life seen snow like this in Ireland. The children are enjoying an extended Christmas holiday as school is now closed until Monday or possibly beyond as extreme weather conditions continue.

So, that’s how we got over the Christmas.

Turning into our mothers


Posted in: Family, Reading etc.

Lesley has a post about how we all start using our mothers’ catch phrases: she lists six of her mother’s which she uses. Here are six of my mother’s that I use and, should you feel inspired to give six of your mother’s in your own blog (or in the comments, if you haven’t got one, surely you have), I will have started a meme (stolen from Lesley, but never mind).

So here we go:

1. You would drive a horse from his oats.
2. You never lost it [this is negative, trust me].
3. What you’re told, when you’re told.
4. Tidy and you’ll find.
5. What can’t be cured must be endured.
6. The best is the enemy of the good.

Thus far I have, however, successfully avoided:

1. Quarrel implies fault on both sides [so annoying this one] and
2. You can but you may not.

The Homemaker’s Whine – Extended Disco Remix Version


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

We have been living in our house for over a year and it continues to be a source of considerable annoyance to me.

It turns out that I do not have impeccable taste and an eye for what would work in my home. Nor do I have a moment to address the vast array of continuing irritations that is my home.

I plan to go through them one by one in the hope that they will provide a catalogue of things to do, if we ever have any spare money, time or taste. And also, that it might make me feel a bit better. Anyone observing that the length of this list is such that I could have repainted the bathroom in the time it took to write it will be taken out and shot.

General

I grew up in a big house. This has given me delusions of grandeur. It did not prepare me very well for living in a small house with one main room downstairs and one bathroom for five people, three of whom “can’t wait”.

Outside

Our house is an end of terrace, disproportionate, 1930s number. The previous owners decided that there is nothing nicer than pink pebbledash. It’s a particularly nasty shade of salmon pink. The front door which cost €1,100 (emergency replacement when tenants were in residence and the previous door was broken down with an axe) is utterly vile. It is varnished a nasty shade between brown and orange, has cheap brass work and a fan light which features glass with bumps. I shudder.

All of the original front sash windows have been replaced by nasty double glazing which, unkindest cut, is so badly fitted that there is actually a gap between wall and window in the Princess’s room where the wind whistles in.

The back of the house features a small ugly extension (the kitchen and the bathroom) and green window frames (sash windows still there, hurrah) which are not a good match with the pink paint. Moreover the extension has no foundations. And when we moved in, the builders took one look at the roof and assured us it wouldn’t last a winter.

The Garden

Actually, by the standards of these houses, the back garden is pretty large. It was almost entirely overgrown and I have spent much of the past year uprooting trees (I am the anti-Lorax) and fighting briars and bindweed. The upshot of this is I have no energy to plant things I might like to see either back or front (which features a forlorn and undistinguished patch of grass, a concrete path and a very high hedge). The back garden, inevitably, faces North.

Outside the back door are two sheds (new doors, hurrah, a worthwhile investment) and attached to one of them is a shoulder high wall whose only purpose is to ensure that as much as possible of the house is kept in darkness at all times. Beyond that is a weed filled patio. The paving stones are red and grey with bumps. There is also a low wall made of orange and grey bricks.

There is, to be fair, a really beautiful very high listed stone wall all along one side of the garden.

The Hall

The hall features the cheapest laminate flooring that we could find. It was good enough for the tenants. I can’t help wishing that we had made more of an effort to get nicer things for the tenants and we could live with them now. It has a nice 1950s sideboard which I bought in Brussels and which is long and thin and excellent for keeping random gloves and bags off the floor. Unfortunately, our movers broke off the front of one of the drawers and it has sat there pathetically with its lower innards exposed for over a year as we try to put together the money and the energy to get somebody to fix it.

The previous occupants’ wall paper, painted over in white and amply marked by our children’s grubby fingers covers the walls. Except right by the bottom step of the stairs where a large hole has opened up and shows no signs of self healing. This is the spot underneath which the cat likes to wee.

Various pictures decorate the walls and a mirror sits forlornly on the sideboard having lost all hope of ever being hung.

We also have two coat stands: one large old-fashioned one bought in a brocante in Brussels and even then losing limbs (a problem which has now reached leprous proportions); and one that was in the house when we bought it. The latter is functional and ugly but largely covered in coats. Eamon, our evil electrician, convinced us that we had to get those little spot lights for the ceiling. They are ok and we have, at last, got round to filling in the large gaps he left behind while putting them in. We got a craftsman painter to do our painting (we really needed someone cheap and cheerful) and as he perfected each piece of wall, Eamon would rip out the electric wires behind it in his rewiring effort.

The Room Downstairs

To the right, through a door set at an angle (interesting), is the only downstairs room which the original house boasted. It is an absolute triumph that we managed to fit much of our furniture into it. Especially when you consider that this is what it looked like when our furniture was originally put in:

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Under the window is Mr. Waffle’s desk – a nice desk, stacked with domestic admin and some of his papers (most of his work goes in bags where it waits patiently for attention) and a keyboard and monitor. To the right of the desk, over the radiator are shelves up to the ceiling filled with domestic admin and Mr. Waffle’s work. These shelves are more utilitarian than attractive and the files which sit on them are practical but not beautiful. Across from these, in an alcove, sit two bookshelves reaching floor to ceiling. Due to storage difficulties (my sister believes that all our space problems can be solved with additional storage) a number of other random items sit on top of and in front of the books. On one side of the desk is a nasty Ikea table supporting a nasty printer in shiny black. On the other side of the desk is a kitchen stool for which we couldn’t find a home and on which the telephone now sits.

In the middle of the room is a gas fire surrounded by a mock Victorian tiled fireplace which isn’t as ugly as it sounds. The mantlepiece is made of painted plywood which is not very nice but is still an improvement on the enormous mock Victorian baronial hall fireplace which we had removed. Over the fireplace is a very heavy mirror whose orientation is landscape but I wanted it portrait – the workmen guessed wrong and I hadn’t the energy to get it redone.

I bought our red armchairs from Ikea about 12 years ago when I was living in my own flat in Brussels. They were nice then but, like all Ikea furniture, they haven’t really stood the test of time. The addition of small children and a shedding cat has not added to their lustre. Our sofa was bought from friends when they were leaving Brussels. It is looking a little tired by now and mostly wears a blanket. The children like to stand on their hands on it using the wall behind as support for their bare, filthy feet. This may explain the state of the wall (the only wall in this room which does not have woodchip and, therefore, my favourite) behind but, obviously, Michael scribbling on it with a pencil hasn’t helped either.

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Beside the sofa is the Ikea Expedit which houses a large portion of our children’s downstairs toys and more books. Endless books. It is very messy and a little alarming to look at. Lots of pictures on that wall – some of them more successfully framed than others. I didn’t like our dining table when it first came into my life with my husband but I have grown very fond of it over the years. It’s a heavy, dark, wood, extendable art deco piece. It is way too big for the room in which it finds itself but I am reluctant to let it go. We have nice plain chairs (again from my husband’s side) and three very expensive children’s chairs – purchased in our days of affluence. We fall over their legs with monotonous regularity and the children hang upside down on them, sit on the back and climb over them. Hey, they’re trendy.

Our television sits on another bookshelf. The television was a present from my loving family (they are loving, aren’t they?) and it cost them a fortune. It is quite large. The children love it but I find its looming shape a little alarming though, obviously, when I watch it, it’s great given my short-sightedness and refusal to wear glasses.

Pushed against the wall is a large, cheap early 20th century cupboard in poor order. It contains spare crokery, the iron, shoe polishing gear, candles, night lights, wrapping paper and whatever you’re having yourself. Beside this is my antique sewing machine, purchased for a song in the petits riens and beloved by me. It’s loathed by my husband and I can see that it does take up a bit of room and light while serving absolutely no practical function but I remain firm.

That leaves under the stairs (ours is one of those rooms where the outline of the staircase is visible) and the other bookshelf we’ve shoved into the corner.

Eamon the electrician convinced us to get spot lights again so there are 8 in the ceiling to Mr. Waffle’s (v. green) chagrin. The room is also awash with lamps, relics from our much larger accommodation in Brussels. All just as well really as natural light is in short supply. The pipes that run across the ceiling and down the walls have been inelegantly boxed in. The, mercifully, revarnished wooden floor (though, if I were doing it again, I would definitely go for a lighter colour) features large gaps through which crumbs inevitably pass, doubtless attracting vermin (how glad I am that we have a cat all the same).

We put yuppie blinds on the windows and these are a source of surprising satisfaction to me. When I can at all, I mean to stick more on the windows upstairs.

The Kitchen

Off the room downstairs is a tiny kitchen extension. Before we moved in, my sister-in-law advised that, if you are going to live somewhere for any period of time, you should have a nice kitchen and a nice bathroom. This was excellent advice, 50% of which we followed. We paid this man, recommended by a friend, a reasonable sum to put in our kitchen. He was great. He was speedy, he came when he said he would and he gave us what we wanted. The fact that there is a nice kitchen does not change the fact that every counter in the kitchen can be touched while standing in the middle of it. It is the smallest kitchen I have ever been in. We kept the old cooker and the old fridge on the grounds that they worked perfectly well and why would we throw them out ? They do, but they are not beautiful. The floor was covered with rather cool red and green bouncy tiles but we could not get them clean so, we covered them over with laminate. Perhaps tiles would have been better. The kitchen has no tiles on the walls either and I would like some – I am adding them to the list. There is a big heavy wooden back door and a cheap wooden door into the other room. I would love to replace both of them with nice glass ones so that the kitchen is not always pitch dark. The electrician did not insist on spot lights here. The window is underwhelming but not actively objectionable. On one worksurface we have a large 1980s ghetto blaster and I fantasise of disposing of it and getting a cute little radio on which I could receive radio 4 without crackle.

The Stairs

Your idiot correspondent chose beige carpets for her stairs. Really, I despair. The carpet is, of course, now fatally stained and filthy.

The Bathroom

The bathroom is on the return, the upstairs part of the extension (the original toilet was in the shed). We did not renovate the bathroom before moving in. It features really nasty rag rolled grey-blue tiles pretty much everywhere except the ceiling. It’s hard to explain the hideousness, you have to experience it. The shower is held together with sticky tape. The sink is surrounding by a white woodwork trellis inspired by the American South. It is also by far the coldest room in the house. Outside the bathroom door is another bookshelf.

The Landing

The hot press is on the landing along with more corridor and less bedroom space than we need. I have put up all my children’s portraits on one wall creating a secular chapel effect. The attic is above the hot press and all around the walls and ceiling are the footprints and handprints of big people trying to get up through a small door.

Our Bedroom

This is probably my favourite room. It needs a carpet. It has bare paint stained wooden boards (no, I don’t mean tastefully, I mean blotchily from our craftsman and painter). It has my favourite piece of furniture which is a wardrobe that we had at home (I think it may have been my grandmother’s) and which my mother gave to me as faithfully promised when I was a child. We have an Ikea chest of drawers (the Malm, since you ask) and a rather expensive chest of drawers that we bought on Rue Blaes when we first moved to Brussels together in 2003 and we had more money than sense. The curtains are unsatisfactory. We have only one curtain as the window is too small for two and it trails along the ground having been made for rather grander accommodation. The bed was brought to our marriage by Mr. Waffle. It is made of pine. There is really nothing further you need to know. Alas, my Ikea bed (trendier and constructed by me using only blood, teeth and an allen key) was too big for the room and we pawned it off on friends. It is really quite big, only the other night we were at a dinner together and they were bitterly lamenting its presence in their life and trying to fob it off on our hosts.

There are some pictures I like on the walls: Redouté prints, a “Rape of the Lock” print by Harry Clarke. A chair for chucking clothes on and a full-length mirror, in which it is impossible to see oneself full-length due to excessive furniture, complete the room.

The Boys’ Room

We were quite astounded to find that we could fit two beds in this room. Well, not beds, as such, because, although they have started school, the boys are still in their cots. We have taken away the bars on one side you will be pleased to know. Entrance to the room is a little challenging due to the presence of a bathroom tallboy which does not, unfortunately, fit in the bathroom. I am very fond of it. I paid 20,000 Belgian francs for it when money was money and Belgian francs still existed which is a slightly outrageous sum but I was rich and carefree. I was just saved from spending 100 euros on a toilet brush at the same time by my prudent sister.

I decided that I would try out the “feature wall” idea in the children’s room (not my own, mercifully). Aside from the fact that feature walls are now very “last year”, my unerring eye for colour meant that the net effect is that their rooms are painted in almost, but not quite, identical shades of blue. It’s not a feature, it’s just a bit confusing. It does go quite well with the curtain (again half of a set meant for a far bigger window – pretty, specially made and heavily lined, the Princess has the other half), so that is something, I suppose.

The boys’ room has a further two Malms for their clothes along with toy baskets and a bookshelf. The surface of the Malms is always covered with randon debris about to tip over and brain one of the children. On the floor is a rug from Bosnia which we received as a wedding present and, of which I am very fond. It tends to divide opinion a bit. I think it’s quite cool and retro (as well as thick pile, not to be knocked) but some people think that it will never actually be cool no matter how long we wait. Between the beds is a beanbag – one of the very useful range of presents which the best dressed diplomat provided over the years – and on the walls are various artistic efforts by the boys. The rug does not cover the entire floor. The part of the floor that is not covered is paint stained wooden boards through which the wretched spot light thingies are clearly visible and a constant source of temptation for enterprising small boys with rulers.

The Princess’s Room

Again, the pointless feature wall (sigh). One good thing that we did was to get the master craftsman/painter put in a fitted press in the weirdly shaped alcove. Lots of storage where I can keep things like babies’ bottles (I know, stop at me) and the Princess can easily put all her clothes. It is basic but not unattractive. She has her Ikea bed which features slats that regularly come adrift, if anyone older than 6 sits on it. I can see this becoming a problem in the future. She has two big baskets and a large bookshelf which increasingly is only populated by her stuff (there was a time when some of our books sought refuge there but she has put her foot down). And the stuff, oh Lord, the stuff. Never has one so small had so much. She has jewellery boxes, stationery, dolls, art gear, dressing up gear, stuffed toys, comics, books, many night lights, avalanches of stuff most of which she likes to store on the window sill. She also has an Ikea computer desk which we palmed off on her when there was no room downstairs. She quite likes it though and, if she can see her way to it will sit and do her homework there. A plain Ikea rug graces the floor and covers most of the bare boards so she does better than her parents and her brothers.

Conclusion

I suppose it wouldn’t all be quite so bad if, next door with a slightly smaller but otherwise identical house, hadn’t created a thing of beauty, perfectly formed, inside and out.

It seems true that only women care about these things. Mr. Waffle is largely indifferent – although he would like more room, the decor does not disturb him (or else, as it is largely my choice, he is being tactful). When I put in lampshades, it took him weeks to notice. The children love the house. Once when I said that something would be possible when we moved to a larger house, they were all very distressed and asked in tones of great anxiety whether we would be moving. Certainly not immediately, I fear. Friends and relations clearly don’t care, why should they? But I care and it occasionally makes me gloomy. I blame my mother for giving me delusions of grandeur.

Domestic felicity


Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle

I don’t work on Wednesday afternoons. Today, I picked the children up from school. Brought them home. Made them change their uniforms. Got herself to do her homework, played trains with the boys. Then while the Princess doodled, the boys and I made ginger biscuits (from Delia, recommended for making with small children, also very tasty) which were just ready as Mr. Waffle dropped in at 5 between various work engagements. While he had his tea and still warm biscuits, I put on dinner. He rushed out to be productive and I looked after the children until he came home at 11.15. I greeted him with great anxiety as the internet connection was down and I am not going to give up NaBloPoMo at this point. He unplugged and restarted various devices several times and to my mixed delight and chagrin, this approach worked. This post may be sub-standard but I had to get it out against a deadline. I feel like some kind of 1950s superwoman/new millenium internet nerd hybrid.

Eeek!


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Princess, Twins

My children do not enjoy as diverse a diet as I did when I was their age. In part this is because I am not at all as good a cook as my mother and in part because they are the pickiest eaters in Ireland.

I am spending a couple of days with my parents (photos of flooding may follow, hold your breath) and this evening my mother cooked prawns for the offspring. It was then that I realised that they had never even had a frozen prawn before, let alone one still encased in its shell. They gazed in horrified fascination at the little bodies laid out for their delectation. They winced as I screwed off the thorax and pulled out the edible part. The Princess then began to create new bodies using the heads and pincers. The boys were too afraid to even touch them. So, your best guess, did they eat any dinner tonight?

Weekend round-up (late for every event so only appropriate that this is late too)


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Hodge, Ireland

Friday night
7.00 – Arrive home from work
7.30 – Leave for 50th birthday
2.00 – Stumble into bed
Saturday
9.30 – GAA. Herself refused to play and the boys drew the line at hurling. Michael got lost. Not a success.
12.00 – Lunch
2.00 – Horseriding for children in the Dublin mountains. Their kind aunt got them vouchers. They absolutely loved it. I spoke to a mother on the sidelines. “Three children riding, it’s going to be bread and water for you from now on.” Hmm. They may have to contain their enthusiasm.
4.00 – Work thing for me.
Sunday
13.30 – Lunch at a friend’s house
16.30 – V. pleasant walk in the war memorial gardens at Islandbridge
18.00 – Arrival of Hodge.